


The Visions Will Return

by paperscribe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperscribe/pseuds/paperscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thought he had prepared for every possible iteration of his eventual return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Visions Will Return

Sherlock thought he had prepared for every possible iteration of his eventual return. He had prepared reactions to anger, to upset, even to tears.

He had not prepared a response to John opening the door and saying, "Oh, it's you. Come in."

Sherlock followed John into the flat, entirely mystified. This was not the response the data should suggest. He had seen the outpouring of sentiment Watson had expressed at his graveside. Surely some of that sentiment should remain upon his return.

"Feel free to sit," John said. "Oh, I'm sorry. I should ask. Is this one of the ones where you're a ghost or one of the ones where you weren't really dead?"

"One of the what?" Sherlock asked, playing for time.

"Dreams," John said. "And frankly, this isn't a very realistic one if I have to explain something to you."

Sherlock examined John carefully. "You genuinely believe you're dreaming."

John shrugged. "I haven't had one about you in a while. I'm past due."

Interesting. "This happens often?"

"Not as often as it used to," John said, with as much expressiveness as if they'd been discussing the weather. "Maybe once or twice a month now."

"It used to be more."

"Every night for a year." He was so calm. It was unnerving somehow. Of the two of them, John was always the one who visibly felt things. Or…he had been, once.

Sherlock considered the problem, then shook his head. "It isn't falsifiable."

"What isn't?" John asked, brow furrowing.

"Whether you're dreaming or not," Sherlock said. "I can provide no evidence that would convince you. If I do something I would ordinarily do, the dream is realistic. If I do something I wouldn't ordinarily do, the dream is unrealistic, and if I do something entirely impossible, that only proves you're dreaming."

"I'd say so," John answered.

Sherlock examined his options. If he threatened to put himself in danger, what he knew of John suggested that John would try to stop him, even if he believed it to be a dream. Sherlock decided to test this theory. "I could throw myself out of the window."

"Don't!" The alarm in John's voice was unmistakeable, and Sherlock analyzed him carefully. White knuckles. Hands on the arms of his chair as though he'd been about to rise. Obvious signs of distress.

"If this is a dream, what difference could it make?" Sherlock asked. "I might bounce or fly or otherwise defy the laws of physics."

"But you don't," John said, voice very quiet. "When you fall, there's only one thing that ever happens."

Ah. Some sort of post-traumatic stress, then, in addition to grief. Sherlock approached John thoughtfully. "I promise not to fall."

"A bit late for that," John said. But Sherlock had broken through; John was no longer calm and passive. He was shaken, sweating, heart rate slightly elevated if the rapidity of his breathing was any indication.

Sherlock sat. "I'm not a ghost."

"Pity," John said, fighting for equanimity. "You're usually nicer to me when you are."

Sherlock regarded John dubiously. "You've clearly forgotten me if you dream of me being nice to you."

In spite of himself, John laughed. "You always made it impossible to idealise you."

"Make it impossible," Sherlock corrected him.

"Sure, of course. Not really dead." John paused. "So what's your explanation this time?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Immaterial. You've already chosen not to believe it."

"Well, yes, but you always take such delight in explaining the trick," John said. "What was it this time? A long-lost identical twin? Anti-gravity boots? An enormous hidden trampoline?"

Sherlock sniffed derisively. "Don't be absurd."

"No, you're absurd!" John snapped, launching himself out of his chair to pace. "Coming back after all this time…to do what? To play with your chess pieces?"

"I never thought of you as a chess piece."

John sighed, shaking his head. "I can't. I've had this conversation with you too many times. I can't do it again."

Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "What do you propose?"

"I don't know."

"If it matters, I don't expect you to understand or to forgive me, though I had hoped you might."

John stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"I've observed that, when one person causes a great deal of pain to another, however unwillingly, the bond between them is damaged, frequently beyond repair."

John snorted. "You unwillingly faked your own death."

"Most unwillingly."

"Why?"

"To stop you being murdered."

"What?" John looked stunned. "To stop _me_ being murdered?"

"I was assured by Moriarty that if I failed to die, he would not fail to kill you."

Although he didn't want to seem so, John was clearly interested in what had happened. "Is that why you vanished?"

"One of the reasons. I had to ensure that none of his criminal network remained to carry out his orders before I could be seen to be alive again."

"Wait. You got rid of Moriarty's entire criminal enterprise?"

"Every last one."

John stood there, weighing what he'd just been told. Then he chuckled ruefully. "That's a new one."

"Of course it is. Your mind could never come up with anything so simple and elegant."

"My mind just did," John said. "Though I'm a bit confused why my mind is insulting me."

Sherlock made no reply. He was considering what he might do next. "What is the constant, John?"

"I don't understand."

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "You've become accustomed to the dreams. Therefore you tend to dream about the same things with only slight variations. You said yourself that when I fall, there's only one outcome. Setting aside the dreams of ghosts, what other constants are there? Is there always blood on my face, for instance? Am I never without my coat? Think, John. What are the constants?"

"Across all of them?" John shook his head, bewildered.

Sherlock thought. They'd been on their phones. He'd said his last words. He'd fallen. Then John had rushed over…John had…

"Oh," Sherlock said.

John made a face at him.

"I never have a pulse, do I?"

John went pale. "How do you know that?"

"Because the last thing you ever did for me was check my pulse," Sherlock said. "The last time you ever touched me, I was warm, but I had no pulse."

"Stop," John said, looking as though he might be ill.

Sherlock unfurled from his chair and advanced, drawing back the sleeve of his coat to bare his wrist.

"It won't be there," John whispered. "It's never there."

"Unless I'm real," Sherlock insisted. "Unless this isn't a dream. Unless I'm alive."

"You don't know how much I wish…" John faltered.

"That it were true?" Sherlock finished. "Touch me, John. Make it true."

For a moment, he thought John wouldn't. But then, slowly, John reached out, one hand holding Sherlock's arm steady as he extended two fingers on his other hand to rest upon Sherlock's pulse point. He held his fingers still, and then he looked at Sherlock, bewildered.

"Whatever remains, however improbable," Sherlock insisted.

John seemed to crumple. "If you're a dream and you've made me believe this…if you disappear…"

"I have no intention of disappearing." Sherlock moved to withdraw his arm from John's grasp, but John made a slight noise of panic and held on. "You think I'll die if you let go?"

"I can't let go," John whispered, his fingers digging into Sherlock's arm.

"Can you at least hold my arm more gently? There are several very sensitive nerve clusters beneath your vicelike grip."

John released his hold to the point that it was bearable. "Right. Sorry."

Sherlock shrugged. He wasn't interested in apologies.

John held Sherlock's arm, other hand still resting on Sherlock's pulse point, silently measuring the steady thrumming as John came to grips with the truth.

Sherlock could wait as long as was necessary for that to happen.


End file.
